Trench Warfare
by EvanescingSky
Summary: WWII is in full swing-France is badly hurt and England will do anything to make sure he survives the German blitzkrieg. In the midst of it all, England confesses to France with agonizing results. One-sided EnglandxFrance


Trench Warfare

"America please! You have to help us!" England hated the begging in his voice, but what else could he do? They were going down in flames! "We're dying here."

"I'm sorry, England," America said, in a rare serious moment. "I won't get involved in one of your wars again. This is your fight, not mine and I won't lose my soldiers for it."

The connection crackled out.

"Fine! Damn you! God fucking damn you!" England screamed into the receiver, slamming it down over and over as if he could wound America that way. He wiped a mixture of sweat and soot from his forehead, feeling overwhelmed. How much longer could they go on like this?

"General Kirkland! We have a message for you sir!"

"What is it corporal?" England rubbed his temples, took a deep breath and turned to see his military officer salute.

"It's about General Francis Bonnefoy, sir. He's been badly injured. Possibly dying. The French are all out of medical supplies."

Nothing the corporal could have said would have thrown England into a deeper panic faster. France? Hurt? Dying? He felt a brief flash of hatred against Germany, but it was lost again in his fear for France.

"I have to go," he said shortly. "I'll go and aid the French and return as soon as possible. Commander Rottingham! You're in charge."

"Yessir!" The Commander saluted. England tightened his helmet and started to jog down a conenctor trench towards the dilapidated country village. "Sir?" Commander Rottingham called. "I suggest travelling by way of horse. The roads are all blocked off, another German blitzkrieg hit near Lille last night."

"Thank you Commander." England dashed through the trenches and heaved himself out, ducking into a ramshackle building that the English were using as a stable. He fastened a saddle onto one of the few remaining horses and mounted it, riding off down the lines and lines of soldiers. In the distance he heard more gunfire and inwardly flinched. How was this possible? How could the great Europe have descended into such chaos so soon after the last world war? Everyone had promised not to let this happen again! And here Germany was, launching another full-scale attack on France!

The wind chilled England's face as he rode. Fall was near upon them and winter not far behind. England rode on, not letting the horse slow in the slightest until he saw the gray uniforms of the French and heard their melodious voices bellowing out frantic commands. The ride took an hour, at least, though at a slow pace it could double. He pulled up beside the trench.

"Excuse me!" he called to a young private. "I'm looking for General Bonnefoy."

"Oh." The private's face fell. "Il est dans un mauvais état. Pourriez-vous lui aider?"

_Does he only speak French?_ "Can you tell me where he is?" England asked loudly.

The young boy seemed to guess what he wanted and he pointed towards a hastily erected cover in the third trench, closest to England, that looked like it was made out of tent scraps. England dismounted his horse and jumped down into the trench, pushing through the harried French soldiers. If the English were bad off, the French were worse. The trenches were bare of anything useful, full only of dirty, hopeless faces, dead bodies and empty cartridges. France lay on a discarded military jacket, his face twisted up in pain, covered in blood and muck from the trenches. The front of his uniform was soaked in red, but no one was paying him the slightest attention. The poor French were up to their necks in German soldiers and running low on everything, including spirit.

"Francis!" England ran to him and fell on his knees at France's side.

"Arthur?" France, with great effort, turned his head to look at England. A pained smile crossed his face. "You came to see me…_cheri_."

"Of course I did, you bloody wanker," England said hoarsely, his heart sinking when he saw just how bad things were. He had seen many things in the past few months, many soldiers blown to bits, many agonized faces of men who'd lost their best friends, many mangled bodies…but to see any of these things on France was unbearable. "You didn't think I'd let you go ahead and die on me, did you?" He felt tears pressing at the back of his eyes and he pushed them back.

The ghost of a smile flickered across France's face and he reached out to take England's hand.

"I'm going to help you, okay?" England said, raising his voice and standing up, laying France's hand across his chest. "I'm going to make you better. Just you wait, alright? Listen to me France! Don't die on me! You there! Colonel!"

The man passing by paused. "Yes sir?"

"I'm taking General Bonnefoy to a safer location in the city to tend to his wounds, okay?"

The colonel hesitated a moment before lowering his eyes. "Do whatever you can," he said in a heavily accented voice. "I fear he will not last. If you can help him…" his voice trailed off. England nodded and looked back at France.

"This isn't going to feel good, Francis," he apologized in advance. France made a slight movement with his head that might have been a nod. England eased his arms beneath France's limp body and lifted him up. France let out a soft whimper of pain and England flinched. "Sorry," he muttered.

It took a good deal of effort for him to get the taller nation through and out of the trenches and up onto the horse. Despite the fall chill in the air, he was sweating by the time he got onto the horse behind France. He put his arms around France's waist to hold him on and grabbed the reins. The horse cantered through the broken remains of the city. Rubble was strewn across the streets, buildings were half-collapsed, bodies lined the streets. England had to detach himself from it all as he had learned to do during war. France was less adept at that and he gripped England's wrist as they rode through his beloved country. England ignored the feel of France's nails digging into his flesh; it was the feel of France's pain that really struck his heart.

Finally he found a building that seemed to be a safe distance from the trenches (Which was an illusion, of course) and he stopped the horse.

"Easy does it," he grunted, helping France slither off the horse.

"I'm sorry," France whispered as he fell and nearly crushed England.

"That's okay," England groaned, shifting France into his arms, bridal style. He kicked open the door and waded through the refuse and broken bits of the building, hauling France up the stairs and into an apartment bedroom. By the time he set France down on the bed, his face was red with exertion and his arms felt like overcooked spaghetti. The bed was white and coated in sawdust, but it was in once piece, which was the most England could hope for at this time.

"It's very comfy," France said softly. He coughed violently and when he drew his hand away from his mouth, it was spotted with blood. England paled.

"Let me see how bad it is," England said, kneeling down beside the bed. He unbuttoned France's jacket and pushed his shirt up, gagging at the bloody hole in France's torso.

"You know, _mon cher_, all my dreams about you taking my clothes off are somehow different than this," France joked lightly. His eyes were full of agony; there was no laughter in their ocean blue depths.

England ignored this and stood up. "I'll be right back."

He jogged down the stairs and retrieved his medical kit from the horse's saddlebags. He returned to France's bedside and pulled out the thread and needle.

"I don't have any anesthetics," he apologized.

"Don't worry. I like to feel more rather than less," France said. The way he kept joking about things was starting to wear on England so he ignored this too. Instead, he began to sew France's wound together. Poor France cursed under his breath and twitched around as England worked. It seemed like hours that he knelt there, threading black string through France's tender flesh, barely able to stop himself from weeping. A lump formed in his throat and left him unable to speak for a good deal of the process.

"Hold still," England commanded as he tied off the thread. Honestly it was one of the worst things he'd ever had to do. He couldn't stand France's pain; having to put the Frenchman in pain himself was almost more than he could bear.

"How can I be still when you've got your hands on my vital regions?" France asked. He seemed so unconcerned with is imminent death, as if he were already resigned to his fate.

"Would you shut up?" England finally snapped and screamed at France, jumping to his feet. "Goddammit! All you do is make dumbass jokes about everything! You're fucking dying for Christ's sake! What the fuck is wrong with you? Can't you take anything seriously?" He stopped, panting. The pressure of the war and the dying and now France was just too much. "I wish for once you would just SHUT UP!" He looked at France and noticed he was crying. Salty tears traced paths through the mud and blood on his pale face, trickling into his filthy blonde hair. His lower lip was trembling and England immediately regretted what he had said.

"I'm sorry _Angleterre_," France said quietly. "I know it seems that I take nothing seriously. But don't you see? My land is being taken over by Germany, my people are suffering, dying and I myself am on death row. My best hope is that Germany will keep me around as a servant, but it is entirely possible I will die by the end of the month. I must joke, _Angleterre_. I must laugh, for if I do not, then I will scream."

By now, England was wiping tears off his own face. He knelt by France once more.

"I'm so sorry, love," England whispered, taking France's hand between his hands. "I shouldn't have yelled, especially not with you being hurt. It was awful of me."

"You are stressed. I understand," France mumbled. He raised England's hand to his mouth and kissed it lightly. England gently shook off France and took fresh gauze from his medical kit and bound up France's torso.

"There you go," England said in a shaky voice. "That's better." He lowered France's dirty shirt over his stomach and re-buttoned his shirt.

"Why are you so upset?" France rasped. He gave a rusty laugh and winced in pain. "I thought you hated me anyway. Surely you can find another bedfellow if I die?"

"Why are you so stupid France?" England cried. "Why can you see all the love in the world but what's right in front of your face? I'm scared you're going to die and I love you! I love you France! I don't ever want to see anything bad happen to you!" And he broke down in tears. He draped himself over France's still body and buried his face in the Frenchman's chest, weeping.

France, always prone to crying, started to sniffle again. He rested a hand on England's head and stroked his short blonde hair. "You've been such a dear friend to me, _Angleterre, mon ami_," he said tenderly.

In all his stress and fear and grief, England didn't even notice that France didn't respond with 'I love you too'. He just took comfort in France's warm chest, the hand atop his head, wondering how much longer France would be there to comfort him. He raised his head and pressed his lips against France's. The kiss tasted salty with their tears, smoky from the gunpowder and bitter from the blood, but England wouldn't have traded it for anything.

That was when the siren went off. It was loud and brittle, sounding hollowly off the empty town. France gasped, clutching his side.

"We have to find cover! The Germans are is coming back!" he cried. Overwhelming fear flooded his gaze and England felt another surge of fury against the German who dared make his beloved so afraid in his own home.

"Oh, shit!" England lifted France into his arms again and rushed back down the stairs. France wrapped his arms around England's neck and clung to the Englishman, not entirely trusting his scrawny frame to support him. England's eyes frantically scanned the building, panic rising in his chest. At last he spotted a cement column exposed by a previous bombing. He carried France over to it and braced his back against it, sliding down to sit on the floor. He pulled France onto his lap and doubled over him. Neither of them moved or spoke, as if they could give their location away.

The bombs fell and with each BOOM! France flinched, fighting off tears. A few lone screams echoed around the city and France buried his face in England's neck, trying to hide from this nightmare. England stroked his back, murmuring softly to the Frenchman, recalling his own pain when London was bombed.

But somehow, through some miracle, their building wasn't hit. They stayed in their hunched over position for at least an hour, terrified of hearing one last bomb, of feeling their building crumble above them. At last, England slid France off of his sore legs and uncurled, getting to his feet.

"Alright, I'm going to take you-" But France was already shaking his head.

"You can't take me anywhere, _Angleterre_," he said. "I must go back to the trenches."

"What?" England was aghast that France would even consider that. "You can't! You'll be killed!"

"I must."

"I don't understand!"

"I have to be there to support my troops," France said simply. "If I cannot offer them support, if I cannot rally them to fight, I will die."

"You'll die if you go back!" England shouted, tears searing his eyes.

"I have to," France said again.

"Don't you care if you die?" England screamed. "Because I care! I care! I love you, France!"

France gave him a look that was three parts sorrow and one part pity. "I'm sorry. But I have no choice." He used the column to drag himself to his feet and staggered to the door. England watched him, ready to run and catch France if he tripped. But he made it to the door and turned to look at England with an unreadable expression. "The heart cannot chose where it will love," he said softly. And then he left.

What did that mean? That France was trying to love England? That he couldn't? Tears obscured England's view and he forced himself to start shuffling back to his horse. He mounted it and caught up with France not even a block away from where they'd hidden.

"Let me give you a ride," England said gruffly. "You'll never make it back like this." France looked distrustful for a moment, but then allowed England to help him onto the horse. England, of course, had no intention of letting France go back to the trenches. He immediately started off in the opposite direction.

"What are you doing?" France demanded.

"Taking you somewhere safe," England replied.

"Let me off this horse right now!" France demanded, incensed.

"I'm not going to let you get yourself killed!" England exclaimed.

"It's not your choice to make!" He started to slide off himself and managed to get around England's attempts to stop him, landing on his knees on the ground with an awkward gasp. Eyes watering with pain, he used the horse to pull himself to his feet.

"Fine!" England shouted. "Fine! Go and get yourself shot up by Germans! See if I care! From now on, you're on your own!" He spurred the horse and took off through the streets, not caring how France got back to the trenches. _He could be blasted to bits for all I care!_

The ride back was harrowing between the shells bursting just across the trenches, men shouting orders and having to avoid rubble strewn every which way. He made it back physically in one piece, but emotionally he was a wreck. He hopped down and threw himself back into the trench.

"Commander Rottingham! What's the news?" he asked, hoping no one could see how red his eyes and cheeks were.

"The Germans bombed Lille again and are about to make a final assault." He paused a moment. "We must fall back, sir. The Germans are going to take Lille this night. There is no stopping it."

_Well that's just great! That's just fucking perfect! Can this day get any better?_

"We have another message for you sir, from General Bonnefoy," Rottingham continued.

"What is it?" England asked wearily. He was at the edge of how much more he could stand from France.

"He said," the general cleared his throat, "'Do not lose hope. Stop. Tomorrow is a new day. Stop. Love Francis. Stop.'"

England realized what he was saying. France was telling him not to lose hope that they could hold Lille, but he was also telling him perhaps one day France would love him back! All hope was not lost! England felt a surge of energy and determination. He'd make France love him if it was the last thing he did. And even if he never did, England was unwavering in his vow to make sure France survived this war.

"Commander! Rally the troops! We have a city of light to defend!" he bellowed.

France felt terrible. He was dying and here he was giving England false hope. It was a rotten, awful, slimy thing to do. But he couldn't bear to see that brokenhearted look on England's face. It was too much, too much! He had to say something. And maybe his words would come true. Maybe a miracle would save them from the Germans. Maybe one day he'd find he was in love with England. But at the moment, they both seemed like equally impossible things.

* * *

><p>There are some historical inaccuracies in this story. Here's a note on trenches, as pointed out to me by SkyinOd from devianrtART: The trench system the British had during the last stages of the Belgian defense was prepared before the British army made contact with the German Army. It was well equipped with hideouts and bunkers, but the British hardly got out, but that's beside the point. The point is that there are trenches between the lines of defense that lead to one of the exits of the system.<p>

Please excuse my pathetic lack of knowladge about war.


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